Missing Christmas
by Ivory Wolf
Summary: how old do you have to be to stop believing? Let a 21 year old girl and a Parisan community tell you. Short Christmas drabbles.


**A/N:**** I know this is a little late getting out here, but I didn't get the idea until the day before Christmas Eve, and as you might imagine, I was pretty tied up the last two days. So, here for a little seasonal cheer, my one-shot Christmas story. **

I'm not sure how I got here. You know when you have a dream so real you're never sure if you're asleep or awake? Maybe this was one of those realistic dreams. If so, it was a lovely one. I opened my eyes and was staring into blankness, neither light nor dark. Something cold and familiar fell on my face, melting into my eyelashes, catching on my hair. Snow. I look to one side and see dim lighting from two buildings. I pull myself up and wander out of the shadowy alley, curious as to why I'd be there in the first place.

There's a lamp post at the street corner. I know it's safest to stay in the light and hurry towards it, yet somehow, I don't feel I'm in any danger. It's so very quiet. I pass shops and buildings with strange lettering foreign to me. This place is unfamiliar. The lamp post is tall, old-fashioned with an actual candle burning inside instead of the common light bulb. It's so fascinating I watch it for a minute. You never see that kind of thing anymore.

When I turn the corner, there's a bridge—a beautiful wide bridge over a river that's gradually freezing. Beyond the bridge is a city stretching far as the eye can see. Even though it's dark, I can tell. Everyone knows when it snows, the night becomes almost as bright as day. But what catches my eye, is there, somewhere in the midst of that wintery city, a colossal structure I recognize to be the Eiffel Tower. This is Paris. And it's snowing.

The closer I get to the heart of the city I notice festive decorations around me. There are clusters of people here and there, all dressed up quite fancy. I stop a middle-aged woman in a fuchsia gown with a light pink jacket and furs and ask her what day it is. She regards me warily, perhaps because of my odd state of dress, Holiday pajama pants and a baggy green shirt with the words "I still believe in Santa" on the front, or perhaps because she thought me a mentally-disturbed recluse because it happened to be December 24th…Christmas Eve.

I had gone along with the fact that this must definitely be a dream, and a beautiful one at that, because of where I was, and all the evidence that proved I must be in the late 19th century. I passed shops that weren't closed yet. One had the most remarkable toy display in the window that I would've never seen in any Macy's or Hallmark. All the toys were old-fashioned too; things you would only see now-a-days in catalog advertisements and antique shops. There was a bakery where a plump, jolly woman in spectacles was handing out pastry samples to some young children. A man sweeping snow off the walk in front of his store quickly whistled for a carriage (a real live carriage!) for a lady with an armful of parcels. Several boys with high stockings and long scarves raced past me, pulling sleds or dodging snowballs from their companions. I passed a few apartments and could see inside the lit windows where a mother was placing a bowl of soup in front of her children. Another window portrayed a man with a mustache giving his little girl a piggy back as she placed a decoration on the Christmas tree.

This was a dream. How could it be anything but? The setting was exactly like something out of a children's storybook. The kindness and spirit that radiated through the atmosphere was a wonderful feeling, like welcoming home a brother from war or tightly hugging a friend who's come to visit after many years. Although I was 21, I tried to keep the slim grasp I had on whatever small amount of magic was left in the world; something worth believing in. It was a feeling that was strange and rapidly becoming alien in my time. It was a feeling nobody wanted.

I soon walked by a building which I immediately recognized to be the Opera House—a place I'd always wanted to visit should I have ever gone to Paris for real. Every detail from the structure seemed so clear and vivid as if I was actually there. I saw a few peddlers on the stairs near the entrance. A few well-dressed gentlemen bought flowers for their ladies, donating a few extra coins to the peddler. I continued along the side of the building, passing a few carolers and street musicians. I felt a nudge on my elbow and turned to see a little girl, no more than six or seven. She held out some kind of bread roll.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't got any money."

I guess I didn't think that even in dreams, not everyone can speak English. But somehow she seemed to understand, and continued to hold out the bun while rapidly speaking French. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she pointed down the road a ways and I saw a plump, kind-faced woman with a basket on her arm I guessed to be her mother. She waved at me, and I raised my hand half-way to shyly wave back. The little girl kept chattering, gesturing at my clothing and I compared mine with hers. With the little history I kept logged away in the back of my mind about the 19th century, I knew her state of fashion was not much better than mine, even if it was a dress, which meant her family was of lower class and lower income. I could guess that what she was trying to say was that I looked like a sad case in need of nourishment, and being the holidays, their family could spare a slice of bread. I took it hesitantly, in case she changed her mind.

"Merci." I nodded to her and her mother.

"Aurevoir."

It really was the sweetest gesture. I held onto it with both hands while I watched the musicians. There was a flutist that didn't sound half bad, and a boy with a pennywhistle. But it was near the back of the building I heard the singing. Unlike the carolers, this was the voice of a lone girl who looked to be a few years younger than me, and it had to be the sweetest voice I'd ever heard for a girl her age. Charalotte Church had nothing on her. She was accompanied by an older man playing the violin. There was a beat up old hat sitting a few paces away for collecting tips and by the looks of it, business wasn't that good. I honestly wished I had something to give, but all I had was the bun…deciding it was better than nothing I deposited the whole thing into the hat. It was still hot and I hadn't eaten any of it. The violinist dipped his head in thanks as the song came close to the end, and I smiled then went on my way. I didn't get far when I heard the girl call out in some funny language that wasn't French.

I turned around to see the girl running up to me, curls bouncing. She was rattling off in her odd language, and was discouraged when she realized I couldn't understand. So, she switched to French, which didn't help much as I didn't understand that either. But she wasn't put off by that. She just attempted to make gestures and symbols with her hands. I acknowledged she was thanking me for the bread, and then seemed to be pondering something before feeling about her person. Finally, she pulled a decorative comb from her hair. It was lovely and simple. Just a small barrette with seed pearls and a turtledove made from some kind of shell. She took my hand and placed the barrette in my palm.

"Hold up! I can't take this."

From the shaking of my head she understood my refusal, but closed my hand over it, rambling over my protests. Tired of French, and tired of polite refusal, I gave in.

"Merci, beaucoup." I said, uttering the one and only phrase I knew in this language.

She smiled warmly, and returned to her violinist. Somehow, I felt the compelling urge that I was running out of time here. I didn't know how long I had, and I didn't know where to go, but I figured maybe it'd be best if I looped around and headed back to where I started from. I hadn't gone three steps when I suddenly crashed into a dark object in the corner and dropped the hair comb.

"Oh! I'm so sorry." I gasped when I realized it was a man. I bent down to search for the barrette.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle."

I felt him kneel down to help me, but I didn't look at him, my face warm with embarrassment at my clumsiness.

"It was my fault. Really, I'm such a clutz. I haven't got a graceful bone in my—"

My babbling trailed off when I finally got the guts to look up into the face of the unfortunate victim of my graceless charm. In my time and era, nobody could mistake that face, or that mask over the face as it were. Fancy opera clothing, cape, gloves, fedora…Yep, I knew who this was, but I didn't let on that I knew. I didn't leap for joy, jump up and down screaming in his face or throw my arms around him, squealing "Pick me!"

"—body." I finished at last.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure I was just as much of a.._clutz_." It suddenly dawned on me I could understand him.

"You speak English?"

"Yes. I've acquired several languages through the years. I find it most helpful."

It was hard to make out the white turtledove in the snow, but I'd forgotten that this man's eyesight was very keen and he found it with little trouble. We stood and he handed it to me gently.

"Thank you." Before I could hurry off, he stopped me.

"Just a moment, mademoiselle. I saw what you did back there."

I looked back at the girl and the older man, sitting and sharing the bread.

"Seeing as you're in a poor financial state," at this he regarded my pajamas, "I wouldn't doubt that was your only source of food for this evening as well as the next few."

I shrugged. "So?"

"Why would you do that? The girl and her father are in better condition than you. You don't know, they might've had a feast waiting for them at home."

I thought for a moment. Why did I do that? It's not as if I was really hungry. I had the good stuff back home. But it's not like I could tell him that. He'd think I was nuts, and I couldn't very well get back to my Wheat Thins and Chef Boyardee if I was stuck here in a mental ward. So I gave the most honest answer I could.

"Because it was all I had to give." He still didn't seem to comprehend, so I tried to show him how I saw the picture.

"That girl singing… I'm fairly certain it's one of the best voices I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot, believe it or not. And I've always loved the sound of the violin. For me, this was their Christmas gift to all, tonight. It was all they had to give."

For a moment, he looked to be digesting this; a thought that had never crossed his mind before. But he suddenly turned stoic.

"Ah yes, you're one of those silly girls with a head filled with sugarplums and all that nonsense, am I correct?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A fool-hardy child with rash notions of Christmas magic and such drivel. It's enough to make one nauseous."

"You know what, maybe I am. So what? It's not hurting you. You may not be one for the holidays but let me tell you, enjoy it while it lasts!"

"Why should I?" He replied calmly. "What importance does it hold for me?"

Biting my lip in frustration, I glanced back as if I could see all the way down the road I'd come to all the shops and homes, and people I'd witnessed there…all the way to the singing girl and her father.

"Because if you don't now, then you never will. I'm sorry if I'm 'one of those girls' who actually embraces the magic of Christmas. But you don't seem to understand. I see families still together, sharing real dinners, and decorating _real _trees. I see shopkeepers selflessly giving away free samples before closing time. I see poor families giving to those who are even more worse off than them. I see the _real_ spirit of Christmas here, and it's one I can actually feel."

I didn't mean to tell so much about how the 21st century worked. But I was so irritated that even here someone couldn't appreciate what they had while it lasted, that I just couldn't shut up.

"Where I come from, everything's so…fake. We decorate fake trees, with fake decorations that don't mean anything, we eat frozen dinners and almost every family is split up. Some don't even have families! It's fake spirit and fake gratitude. It's all about the money and nothing that really matters anymore!" I finished, exasperated.

He looked at me like I was crazy, and perhaps I was, but I didn't care. If I had to play the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, so be it!

"Maybe your past Christmases have really sucked, but I'm telling you, in this place, this time, this is the best Christmas atmosphere anyone could hope for. Where I come from, it's only something you see in a story book. It may not seem like a big deal to you now, but one day, one day very soon, it'll all be gone. I envy you, because you have something I don't. You have the simplicity and full-blown magic that Christmas should've always been. At least, where I come from."

A church bell tolls somewhere in the city, alerting its citizens that it is almost time for midnight mass. I know I have to go or the dream will end before I have a chance to finish it. I start to walk away from our conversation.

"You keep saying that. Just where do you come from?"

"I can't say. You wouldn't believe me anyway." I start to slightly jog back down the road, all the people who were once strolling down the streets, disappearing gradually. He followed me with long strides.

"I've heard many strange things in my time, this being one of them."

"Well, time has got something to do with it."

"Time?"

"Yes, and a very different place, with different fashions and different culture--."

"Judging by your appearance and language that was quite obvious. Just curious, why are you running? Did the mask finally clue you in that I might be some dark villain, waiting you rob you blind?"

I laughed. "Of course not. That doesn't bother me at all." He stopped.

"It doesn't." It was a statement.

"No. Should it?"

"It bothers everyone else."

I picked up speed again as the bell tolled six. I was almost to the bridge. "Well, as we've determined, I'm not like everyone else. There's just somewhere I have to be."

"Where are you going?"

"Why are you following?"

"I'm not sure."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Believe me I know that better than most. I'm usually the one saying it."

"So you're a cynical old Scrooge, with no love for holidays, doesn't believe in magic, and chases whimsical girls in funny clothes down dark streets. I think someone's fighting that little doubt in their heart."

"Don't be ridiculous, you brazen little tart."

Once I was on the bridge I stopped running and turned to face him.

"Look, Erik. It was the thrill of a lifetime meeting you, but I don't think you should follow me any further."

I realized my mistake once I saw his whole body turn rigid as the ice forming under the bridge. The bell tolled nine.

"What did you say?"

"Uh---um…"

"I never told you my name. No one knows my name. How is it you do?"

"It—sort of has something to do with that place I come from. Please, don't make me tell you anymore. Just know that I'm glad I got to be a friend if only for 10 minutes. I have to go. I wish we had more time. Stay here, now. Don't follow me anymore. And Merry Christmas, Erik."

Still in awe and unbelieving he kept his eyes on me as I walked briskly along the bridge.

"Where is it you're going?"

"I can't say," I repeated, "You wouldn't believe it anyway."

"So, time," he picked up our earlier conversation about where I came from. "…Time, another place, another culture. Any other clue that would give me the answer?"

I smiled. The snow was softly falling, and I felt lightheaded, almost dizzy. It must've affected my eyesight because looking down my body appeared almost if it were…fading. '_I need to find a way around this REM cycle.'_ I thought. I turned around to see Erik's majestic figure one more time before the dream ended, and said the one word I've always wanted to say to somebody. I smiled and nodded at his previous question.

"Believe."

I woke up to my mom making noise in the living room, and realized it was Christmas morning. Although I wanted to sleep in some more and catch up on some badly needed rest, the excitement coursed through me regardless, and I slid out of bed and stretched.

"Mmm…That. Was a great. Dream."

I threw my house robe on over my PJ's, and stepped in front of my vanity mirror to run a comb through my hair, knowing mom would be armed with the digital camera as soon as I got near the tree. I hastily smacked the comb back down and was about to rush out when I noticed something glinting from the white surface of my vanity table. I picked it up and with some mixed emotion of surprise, curiosity, fear, and disbelief I recognized the pearl-studded hair comb with the shell-like turtledove. The same one the girl in the dream had given me. But that was a dream. My thoughts were interrupted by my mother calling from the other room.

"Is that my baby girl?"

"Hey Mom?! Did you put one of my Christmas presents in here?"

"Noo," she answered warily. "When have I ever done that in the past?"

"Oh. Okay, never mind!"

"Anything wrong?"

"No, it's nothing."

"Hurry and get out here so we can open presents before the cats do!"

_I don't know how it got there, perhaps I'll never know. It was scary to think of it at first, but then recalling what a wonderful dream it had been, I smiled at the thought that this was, in a way, a connection to another time, in another place, to a man in a mask and several others who helped me appreciate what Christmas should always be. Filled with the simplest gifts no one ever thinks to give anymore; love, laughter, joy, charity, sharing, helping, believing…hope. _

_ I think of my friends and my family and how everything's changed for us. The holidays aren't what they used to be—so carefree, something we didn't really even have to think about changing. It was just…there. There for us to enjoy and share and play with. Now, as we grow older, with each Christmas our interests and views are different. Our perceptions change. We've created new meanings to adjust and adapt to our benefits, __**our**__ desires, __**our**__ needs. I miss the old Christmas. Someone told me it's supposed to feel this way, we're growing up. It's not because we're growing up. It's because we're growing synthetic; artificial, like the Christmas trees people are buying now, and the artificial Santas, and artificial snow, and artificial spirit of Christmas that revolves around money more than anything else. We're forgetting it. And we are missing it. _

_ But maybe someday, need __**will**__ be rarer, and money won't matter so much anymore. And maybe Christmas won't be about bonuses, extra donations, and one-day sales. Maybe Christmas won't be used as a tool to climb the financial ladder. Maybe I'm too old to believe in magic and believe in Santa, and believe in midnight trains that take you to the North Pole. But I can hope that one day Christmas will be better. Christmas will be how it used to be. No matter how old I am, that's something I can always believe in. _


End file.
